


Dogtags

by BloodyAbattoir



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Gen, Ghosts, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-19
Updated: 2012-06-19
Packaged: 2018-02-04 12:44:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1779562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodyAbattoir/pseuds/BloodyAbattoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You thought he was dead. When you die, guess who shows up to collect your soul?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dogtags

You sit there, on the floor, unmoving, the chain in your hands. It's pretty fucking cheap for a chain, all rusted over and tarnished, yet you still cling to it. You don't care that it's all fucked up, it's the sentimental value attached to it. He used to wear this chain all the time, according to him, every minute, waking or sleeping, besides the shower, and you're betting that he probably wore it through a good few showers.  
  
But that doesn't matter to you, because it's the history to it, the history and those tags on it. Just two dogtags, nothing special. One hand his name, the other was a tag for the Black Veil Brides army. He used to kiss them all the time, similar to the way that people would do to a rosary. Sometimes, you get the bizarre impression that if you kiss them, it'd be almost like kissing him, even though it'd never happen.  
  
You're pissed at him now, and you ask why he had to do it? Didn't he yell at you when you tried? Didn't he refuse to talk to you for months on end after that, because you'd told him you'd never do it? Didn't he fucking live by that motto of "Never Give In"? That was the title of a Black Veil Brides song. It was practically his religion. Those tags were his rosary, Andy was his savior, those songs were his hymns, Sandra was his Virgin Mary, the remaining band members were Andy's disciples, and CC was his Judas.  
  
You've gotten a tattoo now, in his memory. You know he would've hated it, because the one time that you mentioned it to him, he said that he hated tattoos, even though he was fine with Andy having them, because Andy wasn't him. It's those 3 simple words that he always used to tell you. Never Give In. He used to write it for you on your wrist, every morning, right across the scar from when you tried to kill yourself maybe 3 years prior.  
  
When you'd gone to the tattoo parlor, you had brought a letter from him, and had the artist match the handwriting. Sometimes you pretend that you had just seen him that morning or maybe the night before, and he had written it in just like old times. It's funny, because near the end, he didn't want anything to do with you. Then about a week after you got the call from a prior friend of yours, who was still a close friend of his, you got the letter in the post.  
  
His closing line, below his name, had been _Never Give In_ , in his messy handwriting that you somehow adored. He had enclosed his tags into the letter, proving that even though he had said that you didn't mean anything to him, you still meant a world to him, otherwise there was no way that he would have left those tags to you in the first place. Even though he's gone now, there's still so many little reminders of him floating around your room. The jacket that you had borrowed from him one day when you were freezing in class, and had forgotten to return. The stuffed dog he had given you for Christmas. You had made him a pair of gloves in return. And of course, those cursed tags, that you had taken to wearing round the clock.  
  
You start to cry now, remembering all the good times that the two of you had. You realize now that you really missed his hugs, and all those crappy little jokes that he used to make. You never thought that you would, since you were always yelling at him over it, but you do. You sit there with the dead boy's tags clutched so tightly in your hand that they start to cut into your palm. It's only when several drops of blood start to drip onto the floor next to your leg that you realize that one of the sharp edges actually have cut you, and pretty deep too, it seems.  
  
"Are you planning to meet me on the other side?" You ask to no one in particular, since the room is empty, but it's directed at him anyways, as if he could hear you. You don't have any other 'dearly departed' that could possibly meet you on the other side, besides an old dog and a turtle who'd died of a cracked shell months prior, unless all those fish you had when you were a kid count. As expected, nobody answers you.  
  
You laugh, shaking your head, before grabbing up the huge knife that lay by your side. Sure it was overkill, but you like the way it lookes. Without warning, you slice into your left arm, wrist to elbow, ignoring the ink that said to never give in. You make sure however, that it didn't mess up that tattoo. Because if you somehow survive this, you still want that ink where it was.  
  
You are prepared for the pain and the blood that gushes out, but you still can't stop a slight gasp of pain from coming out, or the spurting blood from staining everything in the nearby vicinity. You drop the knife in pain, and it hits the wood floor with a clink only metallic objects make, instinctively clutching your injured arm closer to your body. You half want to laugh at yourself, because you're going to be dead soon, but you can't help but still recoil from the pain.  
  
Your vision is slowly going blurry and dimming out at the edges, and you fall over, into the pool of blood. You know you probably look like something out of Stephen King's Carrie, during the scene where they dumped the pigs blood on her, yet you can't bring yourself to care all that much. It won't matter soon enough. Nothing is going to matter after a while, you think, closing your eyes. His tags are still in your hand.  
  
What seems to be hours later, you regain consciousness. You let out a gasp of fear, and dare I say it, shock, as you see something you thought was priorly impossible. He's right there in front of you, as if he were alive again. "Y-you're dead." You manage to choke out. It's been nearly 6 months, there's no way. "So are you." He says with a shrug, before he says, somewhat accusing, "Why?"  
  
"I couldn't go on. You can't really say anything, because you did it before I did." You had fantasized about reuniting with him for months, but you knew it was all in vain, but never in your wildest dreams did you think that you would ever see him again, let alone nearly start arguing with him straight off the bat. "Fine." He says, letting it go as if it were nothing.  
  
Then, something hits you. "Wait...I'm dead?"  
  
"Yes, smart one." He says, as though it were something simple as hell. He usually only got like that when you couldn't wrap your head around very simple facts of life, even though you were the smarter of the two. Then, you realize something. He has jet black angel wings, like a fallen angel. You couldn't help but smirk at this, considering his obsession for Black Veil Brides, and their obsession for fallen angels.  
  
"Come on, get up, you're lying in blood." He said, extending his hand to you. You take it, and stand up, your spirit exiting your body. Strangely enough, his tags are still in your hand. He pulls you into a hug, and you cling on for dear life, squeezing until you swear you can hear his ribs snap, but he's holding on just as tight. After a minute or two, he lets you go, and you step back. He sees that you're still holding those godforsaken tags, just like you've been doing for the past few months.  
  
"I'll be taking these back, thanks." He says, reaching over and plucking them from your grasp. He wipes the blood off them, before dropping them over his head to their usual resting place. It's strange, because your arm doesn't hurt at all, if anything, it looks like it's already healing itself. "Yeah, that's gonna be fuckin' nasty." He says, glancing down at it, but he doesn't look too concerned.  
  
"So what now?" you ask him. He glances down at you, making the near foot of height difference ever more obvious, raising his eyebrows slightly. After a tense minute of silence, he says, "The afterlife, of course!"


End file.
